A grey morning and yellow daffodils, a slick terra cotta pot nestled in damp soil beneath the budding tree, birdsongs, cawing, echoing through windows. A thick white mug with orange lining, the words, “TEA with honey,” coffee inside it, warmth on my tongue, my fingers, cinnamon and bittersweetness. A chill on my bare skin, gooesbumps beneath fire engine red spandex, the rising of my spine, the pop of a vertebra. A small square of paper: ”movement ∞ emotion.” Small squares of paper everywhere. Contraction, release, spiraling. Breath, sex & dance. What would love do? Everything touches everything, there is a wholeness, this wholeness is in motion. Even the ether trembles; all parts of the web quivering. In waves, in ripples, in harmony, in space. A quaking mess of sensitivity. A bunch of delicate flowers arranged in a small milk jar respond to the bouncing weight of my writing hand. The budding tree bobbing its limbs responding “yes,” to the wind. And here I am, responding to each rhythmic stimulus part of the chorus in concert with the spiraling universe.
Discussion about this post
No posts
"Even the Ether Trembles" — And rightly so!
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥